


Last Hope

by indecisive (darling_highness)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 06:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11663190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_highness/pseuds/indecisive
Summary: Dean and Sam go to Helena, Montana on a case and meet you, the reader.





	Last Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for sea040561's 100 Follower Writing Challenge on tumblr! I'm also posting it here. Please leave a comment and tell me how you like it!! Love you!

A warm breeze rustles the young grass near the boat launch of Lake Helena. With the early spring comes warmer waters, and a plethora of fish. Despite it being just past four in the morning, two aluminium boats sway on the surface of the crystalline waters, reflections of lingering stars winking at the lone man on shore. Lewis smooths his hair back beneath his baseball cap before manoeuvring his rig down the ramp, sliding the boat into the water with practiced ease. In his forty-eight years of life, he had been launching his flat-bottomed boat on Lake Helena for thirty-one of them.

With the boat bobbing a steady rhythm against the dock, truck parked, Lewis takes a moment to take in the air. Looking out on the lake, he observes the two boats with their early risers. The further boat winks a small white light at him three times in greeting, and Lewis raised his arm in a similar gesture, aware that perhaps they could not see it in the dim light of the wee hours. The sun has yet to fully emerge, however some pale rays break up the darkness overhead. Lewis moves away from his truck and towards the boat, fishing poles and tackle box in hand, when a rustling sound from the trees to his left makes him falter. Now, Lewis was by no means a frail man. He was broad in the shoulders and had a sizeable pot-belly that he hid with a variety of flannel shirts. Beneath his wiry grey beard shone a whitish scar from an incident with a buck knife. His tanned skin was pocked with various other scars and age-appropriate wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. No, Lewis did not scare easily. There weren’t many things bigger than him in these parts. Yet, this abrupt sound made him stop. It felt… off to him. Lewis squints towards the tree line, glimpsing what appears to be a portion of a large buck’s antlers. The rack lacks the typical fuzz of early spring growth, not to mention the aged enormity of it. “What in the World…” Lewis murmurs, stepping tentatively forward. Gravel crunches beneath his feet, startling the buck. Its head emerges from around the tree. Lewis’s heart stops. The features of this buck are unnatural. Blood drips from its tattered chin and carnivorous fangs peek from a snarling mouth. This was no deer. But no shit, right? This… thing… was a monster, fresh from hibernation and hungrier than Hell, and it had Lewis in its sights. It moved between the trees and Lewis could now see its torso, patches of skin and mangey fur leading to a yellowing ribcage and the beast’s free-hanging intestines. It was something straight out of nightmares. _Fuck._

Lewis’s grip loosens and his belongings fall to the ground. His insides turn cold with fear, his mind slowing for the same reason. His gut tells him to run, so he does. Lewis hadn’t even turned three quarters away before the monster has him in its deadly grasp. With a terrified wail that echoes across the empty space of the lake, Lewis is gone.

-

“Hey, Dean.”

“Sup?”

“Check this out.” Sam gestures for his brother, turning his laptop on the motel table to face Dean.

“ _A Prickly Predicament- Man Disappears from Boat Launch of Helena Lake, Just South of Prickly Pear Creek._ You know, the fact that they have to justify their pun makes it kinda suck.”

Sam scoffs. “Read the article, dumbass.”

Dean reads over the first couple paragraphs of the article, squinting at the screen. “So the guy’s getting ready to go fishing and he just vanishes? Maybe he forgot somethin’ at home.”

Sam shakes his head. “Guy dropped his poles and tackle just behind his truck. The lake is just over 5 miles from Helena. I doubt he would have walked back. But this isn’t the only one. The following night, a couple coming home from dinner mysteriously disappear just outside their house. Babysitter called the police. Then, three nights later, some kids were camping when one of their friends left the site to piss in the woods. He never came back. All three of the remaining campers say they smelled something foul in the air, like rotting meat.”

Dean eyes his brother, brows raised. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“Dunno. Rougarou? Maybe a Wendigo?”

“Could be.” Dean straightens, brushing his hands over the front of his flannel. “Should we check it out? We’re done here anyways, and Montana’s just a couple’a states over.”

“I mean, yeah, we should probably check it out. Sounds like our kind of thing.” Sam leans back in his chair, glancing up at his brother.

“I’ll go check us out. Get ready to go.” Dean heads for the door, and Sam mutters his consent just before the door shuts behind his brother. He doesn’t immediately stand, instead opting to look around the room. It’s like any other hotel they’ve stayed in throughout his life: decorated with tacky wallpaper and furnished with beds that have seen better days. Even though Sam has been back in this life for a few months now, he isn’t used to it. He misses Stanford. He misses Jess. Thinking of Jess, his eyes involuntarily drift towards the ceiling. Sam shudders, trying to suppress the memories of that fateful night. His stomach is rolling with anxiety and his hand clenches on his thigh, knuckles white. Sam sits there a while longer and is only shaken out of his thoughts by Dean saying “I thought I told you to get your things.”

Sam doesn’t look at him, but rather notices how much he sounds like their father. Swallowing down the sick feeling in his throat, Sam murmurs, “Sorry. Got distracted.”

Dean walks to his bed, checking his duffel before zipping it. “S’okay, Sam. C’mon, get your stuff packed for real this time.” He sounds a bit more gentle now, probably having realised how demanding he sounded when he entered the room.

Nodding, Sam stands to put his computer and spare pair of shoes away in his bag. It isn’t long before he’s ready to go too.

The boys hop into Baby and begin the monotonous drive from Bismarck, North Dakota to Helena, Montana.

They arrive in Helena well after dark, checking into their motel and falling asleep immediately. They decide to visit the police station in the morning. They had considered going to any of the crime scenes, but seeing as the first disappearance happened over 4 days ago, and any other evidence would be in the police files, they figured their best bet was the station.

-  
Flashing their badges gets them what they want: access to the evidence and the officer handling the cases.

“I’m glad the Feds caught wind of this. Things are starting to get a little out of hand,” the officer, Dina Shepherd, muses, searching through a stack on her desk for the right manila folders. “Here y’are.”

“Thanks,” Sam replies. “We’ve found similarities between the disappearances, and suspect they could be connected.”

Officer Shepherd sits at her desk, peering between the two men. “You think it could be a serial kidnapper or something of the sort?”

Dean clears his throat before muttering, “Could be.”

“Well, alright,” the officer replies. “Y’all got here just in time, too. ‘Nother one went missing last night. A miss Hannah Baker. Walking her dog in the evening and she didn’t come home. Dog did though. He was acting like he saw a ghost, cowering in the corner when I was asking Ms. Baker’s housemate questions.”

“Can we have the file for that one too?” Dean asks.

Nodding, Officer Shepherd hands Dean the file right off the top of the stack. “There weren’t any witnesses and we took the roommate’s statement, but maybe she could tell you something useful.”

“Thank you officer.” Dean skims the information in the folder, reading over your name on the page, then your address. “I think we’ll pay Ms. Y/N Y/L/N a visit, ask her some questions. Let’s go, Agent Skynyrd. Thanks again Officer Shepherd. We’ll be in contact.”

“Agents,” Officer Shepherd replies with a nod as the boys head out of the station.

—

Three knocks. The sound shakes you out of your thoughts, and you raise your head from your knees. You’ve been sitting on the couch all day, a complete mess since last night. Buster hasn’t been any better. He’s been curled up beside you with his head on your feet, trying to comfort you as best he can. His presence hasn’t stopped the tears… And the anxiety, and the panic attacks, and the utter fear you have for the fate of your friend. For all you know she could be dead. The knocking comes again, more forceful now. You stand at the sound. Buster rises with you. He trots to the door, wagging his tail just a bit. So much for being a good guard dog. You put your calf in front of him when you open the door so he doesn’t bolt out. Two tall men in black suits crowd your stoop. “Can I help you?” You ask.

The men pull out their FBI badges and flash them at you, and the shorter man speaks. “Y/N Y/L/N?” You nod. “I’m agent Nash and this is agent Skynyrd. We’re here to talk to you about your friend Hannah who went missing last night. May we come in?”

From the word go, you’re sceptical of them. Something feels off about these men. They’re lying. For some time, you had seriously considered joining the FBI, researching information about the organisation and even taking entry tests. You know what an agent should look like.

Despite this knowledge, you open the door wider to let them in, urging Buster behind you so they can pass. You want to find out /why/ they’re lying. As they enter, the taller man smiles gently at you, brushing his bangs back from his brow a little bit. He can’t be much older than you. Another sign that something isn’t right. The shorter man pats Buster on the head, grinning to himself. “Can I get you two something to drink? Tea, coffee? I can brew a pot. Already drank the one I brewed earlier.” You smooth your hair back, sighing. You didn’t get much sleep last night, instead opting to search for Hannah. You only just got back around 7am, two hours ago, your efforts proving fruitless. The men- boys, really- both say yes please to coffee. At least they have manners, you muse to yourself as you putter about the kitchen, preparing the coffee. You notice the shorter man peering around your living room in what you assume he thinks is a discreet manner. They are both sat on your love seat by the time you come in with a tray with fixings for coffee. You set it on the coffee table and pour them each a basic cup of black coffee, the way they like it apparently. You make your cup the way you like it and sit back in the plush seat beside the window.

“So are you two going to tell me who you really are, or are we going to keep pretending you two _children_ are Federal Agents?” You inquire over the lip of your mug. “Agent Nash” chokes on his coffee, spluttering and coughing as “Agent Skynyrd” pats his back, looking at you with wide eyes.

Once he finishes coughing, the green-eyed man speaks up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“What makes you think we aren’t agents?” The tall man asks.

You smirk, setting your coffee down on the side table. “Well, to start, FBI Dress Code states that an agent may not wear his or her hair at a length past the ears without having it tied back from the face.” With this, the tall man blushes and averts his eyes. “And… You’re not wearing tactical shoes. You’re both wearing brogues. Do you really expect to be able to enter a combat situation with shoes that barely have any traction? Come on. Field agents need to be able to spring into action at a moment’s notice.”

Both men are staring at you, mouths agape. “Um-uh- I-.. I uh,” the green-eyed man splutters.

“Here,” you say, “let’s start over. I’m Y/N Y/L/N, it’s nice to meet you. What are your names?”

Silence. The boys stare at you, then at each other. The taller speaks first, maintaining eye contact with his partner. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.” He maintains eye contact with his /brother/ apparently.

Dean makes a face and a sound of protest, smacking Sam’s arm. “Dude!” He whines.

“Stop it!” Sam smacks his brother back. He focuses on you again, holding Dean’s wrist in a death grip so he doesn’t smack him again. “We’re hunters.”

You tilt your head just so, watching how they interact. “Hunters?”

Dean nods. “We… hunt monsters.”

Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. Monsters? Are these guys for real? “Are you crazy?”

“Just hear us out,” Sam raises his hands in a defensive manner.

“Y’all are still sitting on my couch, aren’t you?”

Sam nods, lowering his hands back into his lap. You can tell he’s had this conversation before. “So you know about vampires and werewolves and demons, right?” When you nod, he continues. “They’re all real. Angels too.”

You blink a few times, confusion contorting your features. “Like… Angels from the Bible..? Is God real too?” Both boys nod. “Looks like I owe my mom an apology,” you murmur, looking away from the boys. “Are you serious? You’re not fucking with me are you?”

“Of course not,” Dean concedes.

“So you’re hear for a reason. You think a werewolf took Hannah?”

Looking away, Sam exhales slowly. “Not a werewolf. A Wendigo.”

“A what?”

“Wendigo’s are monsters, obviously. They’re ancient creatures, usually native people or western settlers, who resorted to cannibalism. Natives say that if you eat the flesh of a human, it turns you into this immortal monster who will forever be hungry for the flesh of humans, and they’re right. Wendigo’s are scary sons of bitches.” Dean’s features darken in thought. He flexes his right hand around empty air. “Only way to kill em is with fire.”

“So a Wendigo ate my friend?” Your throat tightens with the onslaught of tears welling in your eyes once again. Hannah was your best friend, and the thought of her never coming home made your heart sink. Lower lip trembling, you wiped at your cheeks, unable to hold back the tears. You felt entirely hopeless. Bringing your legs to your chest, you hid your face in your knees. You could hear the brothers talking but you ignored them, choosing instead to close yourself off.

It wasn’t until you felt a hand on your shoulder that you looked up. Dean stood above you, looking down on you with worry. “We don’t know if she’s dead. There’s a chance Hannah could still be alive. We just need to find her first. Cooperate with us, okay? Now isn’t the time to cry. C’mon, it’s gonna be okay.” Dean kneels before you and pushes your hair back from your face. He wipes fallen tears from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “C’mon, Y/N, we need your help. Can you tell us anything about the area? Are there any caves around here? Wendigo’s tend to hide in places like that.”

You take a few shuddering breaths to calm yourself. Looking into Dean’s eyes helps to calm you down too. And his proximity doesn’t hurt either. “Um… There… There’s some abandoned mines above Prickly Pear Creek… Maybe it’s there…?”

“Yeah, actually… That’s a pretty good lead,” Sam pipes up. You look up and smile at him, glad to be able to help. Dean retracts his hand, but keeps his eyes on you.

Standing up, Dean smooths out his coat. “Let’s scope it out soon, during daylight hours.” Dean turns to face his brother. “We should talk to the other witnesses, see if they can tell us anything.”

“Can I help? I can show you where the mines are… I used to hike up there when I was a kid.” You hope that you can do something to help find Hannah as opposed to sitting idly by.

Sam looks at his brother before nodding. “Sure. That could make things easier on us.”

“Alright. We need to cover our bases, but we’ll be in touch. How ‘bout we swing on by the day after tomorrow?” Dean asks. You nod, standing to show the men out.. As they return to your porch, Dean turns to you. “What say we come get you around ten o’clock?”

Humming your agreement, you exclaim. “Before I forget, let me give you my number.” Dean raises his eyebrows and smirks. You blush, realising how that sounded. “I mean, like, in case you need to reach me or something.”

As Dean fishes his phone from his pocket, he hums. “If only you were giving it to me under better circumstances… And I was picking you up for a date instead of to go hunt a monster.”

“Oh, if only,” you repeat, tone teasing, a light smirk on your lips. You punch your number into the contact. “/Maybe/ when it’s all said and done, and you find my friend, we can get dinner. Lord, I cannot believe you’re hitting on me.”“Why’s that? You think you’re out of my league or something?” Dean sounds taken aback, but you can hear the playfulness in his tone.

Shaking your head, you laugh. “While the fact that I am out of your league is true, it’s more so the situation. You come to me saying you’re with the FBI, I call you on your crap, and then you tell me monsters are real and took my friend! I mean, we definitely could have met on better terms.”

Dean is laughing now, head tilted back with the feeling of it. “I guess you’re right.” He concedes. “I’m just glad you didn’t call the police on us. I wouldn’t have a chance at further wooing you if you did.”

You hand Dean’s phone back to him and cross your arms over your chest. You’re leaning against the doorframe, Buster sitting just behind you, observing. “Lucky me, eh? Well, I’ll see y’all tomorrow. Your brother looks like he wants to get out of here.”

Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam who’s reclining against the Impala and donning his Grump Face. Sam raises his eyebrows as if to say “Well? Let’s go!”. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow. Gotta go get some food into this kid. He gets grumpy if he goes too long without eating, you know?”

“There’s a diner in town called Shellies if you’re looking for a good burger.”

Dean smiles, murmuring “thanks for the tip” before heading down the path through your front yard. He waves to you one last time from inside the Impala before driving away. You smile to yourself. It’s a comfort knowing someone will help you find Hannah, even if this help is a little… unconventional. You stand in your doorway a while, thinking of Dean’s rosy lips, his melodic laugh, the charming bow of his legs… You’ll admit to yourself that he /is/ pretty damn cute. You can’t help but wish you two were meeting under better circumstances too.

 

Dean texts you that night.

**Unknown** : This is Dean. Do I have Y/N’s number?

**You** : Do you really think I would give you my wrong number?

**Dean** : Dunno. Just thought I would check.

**You** : Find anything useful today?  
 **Dean** : Besides you? Nada

**You** : Bummer. But also… Aw :)

**Dean** : : )  
 **Dean** : We’ll see you soon. Gonna hit the gay for now. Goodnight  
 **Dean** : hay*

**You** : Hahaha, don’t hit any gay people! Good night!

Dean texts you sporadically during your time apart. You find his sense of humour endearing, along with just about everything else about him.

-

You’re sitting at your kitchen table when your phone begins vibrating, an unknown number on the small display of the top. You flip it open. “Hello?”

“Hey Y/N, it’s Dean.”

The moment you hear his voice, you can’t help the smile that graces your lips. “Hi Dean.”

“We’re on our way over. Are you ready to go?”

“Ummm…. Yes?” You lie, looking down to see you’re still in your jammies. You can tell he doesn’t buy it by the way he scoffs.

“Be ready in 15 or else you’re coming with us, appropriate clothes or no.”

“Thanks, mom.”

Dean laughs. “See you soon, sweetheart.” The call ends with a definitive click, and you get up to put your coffee cup in the sink, doing as Dean asked. You will your heart to stop fluttering at the memory of Dean calling you by a pet name.

You’re finishing tying your hiking boots when the doorbell rings. You can’t help but be a little proud of yourself, since that’s probably the fastest you’ve ever gotten ready in your entire life. When you open the door, both boys greet you warmly. They’re wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel (Sam’s is evergreen, Dean’s is burgundy), and a jacket over top. You snicker. “I didn’t know hunters had a uniform”

Sam laughs, a loud bellow of a thing, and Dean can’t help his smile. “You didn’t know hunters existed until yesterday, so you’re still learning. Oh, by the way, we got you a breakfast burrito. Sam insisted.” Dean hands you a wrapped package, and a sinister little idea pops into your head.

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you! But I’m a vegetarian.” It’s hard to keep back the smirk, but you manage, just barely. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, and Dean’s jaw drops. He says nothing. “Dude. I’m kidding,” you grin. “And you may wanna shut that mouth of yours. You’ll catch flies.” You brush past him while unwrapping the burrito. Sam falls into stride with you, heading towards the Impala.

“That’s not funny!” You hear Dean whine.

“Yeah it was!” You sing-song in response.

-

Once the three of you are piled into the car, you give them directions towards the mines, only speaking occasionally. The mood has become more somber with the memory of what you’re together to do. If you’re being honest, you’re scared as hell. You did some research about Wendigo’s yesterday, and they look absolutely terrifying, judging by the drawings of them. To lighten the mood, you make idle conversation. “So, Sam, is that a dog on your shirt?”

Sam looks down. “Oh, this? Yeah. It’s my purple dog shirt.” He smiles over his shoulder at you. You had noticed the shape of the dog peeking out of the buttoned-up flannel earlier.

“How old are you both?”

“I’m 26, and lil Sammy here is 22.” Dean replies. “How old are you?”

“‘Lil’?” You remark with a laugh. “I’m 24 years young,” you respond. So it turns out Sam was younger than you. Only by two years, though. You smiled to yourself, thinking of the phrase “lil Sammy”. You knew Dean did it just to tease his brother, but it was actually kind of cute. “Turn left up here.”

-

You take the boys as far as they can go, parking the Impala at the mouth of a gravelly trail. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way. The three of you pile out and congregate around the trunk, which Dean has propped open with a shotgun. You look at the contents inside, eyes wide. There’s guns, _tons_ of guns. And ammunition, and what looks like a makeshift flamethrower. Dean picks it up and hands it to Sam along with a flashlight, grabbing similar armaments for himself. Dean looks at you. “You’re staying here,” he states.

“What? No! I want to help you find Hannah! She’s _my_ friend!” You protest, stomping your food. You know it’s a little childish, but you’ll be damned if they leave you behind. “You can’t make me stay here.”

“To be fair, he definitely could, but you wouldn’t be very happy with us if we hog-tied you and left you in the car,” Sam mused.

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” you say. You meet Dean’s equally stubborn gaze.

“You don’t have experience with monsters. You could get yourself, and us, killed.”

“Isn’t there some way I can help? Please.” You beg. Your hands are on your hips now. You maintain eye contact with Dean, brow furrowed.

Dean breaks eye contact first, turning away with a sigh. He rubs the back of his neck. Shifting his weight, he asks “Do you know how to shoot a gun?”  
You nod. “Been hunting with my daddy since I was little.”

“That’s all well and good, but I mean a hand gun. A pistol.” Dean pulls the aforementioned firearm from the back of his pants and shows it to you.

“Yes, Dean, I know how to handle a handgun.” Exasperated, you pull back your jacket to reveal the holster on your left side, your own Walther P-99 tucked inside. Your daddy always maintained the motto “Be prepared”, and that involved knowing and keeping a gun.

Dean looks at Sam, raising his eyebrows. “What should we do?”

Shrugging Sam replies “I’m not great at advice, can I offer you a sarcastic comment instead?”

Dean groans. “Thanks, wise guy.” He turns back to the trunk and pulls out a flare gun and a flashlight. “Here,” he hands the items to you. “It’s the same concept as a gun, just this thing can actually kill a Wendigo.”

“Thank youuuuu,” You take the gun and flashlight. Smiling, you bat your eyelashes at him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “If I die because you fuck up, I’m gonna come back and go all Poltergeist on your ass. Come on.” Dean leads the way up the path, and you and Sam follow.

The mouth to the mine was boarded up long ago, but two of the four ancient pieces of wood lay broken in the dirt, leaving a sizeable gap into the manmade tunnel. This is a good sign, according to Dean. Means you’re in the right place.

“I’ll take point. Sam, you bring up the rear. Stay sharp, y’all.” Dean ducks into the tunnel, flicking on the flashlight. You and Sam follow suit. You three move slowly, scoping out the cave for possible threats. The air is stale and cold. It makes your gut twist with fear. You’re in the den of a cold-blooded man eater. You’re starting to regret demanding to come along when you hear something ahead stir. There’s a fork in the tunnel. You and the boys stand motionless, ears straining to hear anything.

“Hello?” A feminine voice calls from the left tunnel. “Is someone there? I need help!” You recognise that voice to be Hannah’s. With the sound of her voice, the acrid stench of rotting flesh meets your nose and you gag.

“Hannah? _Hannah_!” You scream. Dean tries to shush you and curses. You attempt to run forward, but the hunter wraps his arms around you, holding you back.

“Wendigo’s can mimic human voices! Shit, Y/N! That’s not Hannah!” The sound of feet racing up the tunnel makes your hackles rise. You’ve fucked up, and big time.

“Run!” Sam screams. The three of you run down the right tunnel as fast as you can. The beams of your flashlight bob and bounce with the urgency of your footfalls. You can hear another set of feet gaining on you quickly. Lungs burning, you urge yourself to keep going, ever vigilant of the rough terrain of the tunnel. It opens up into a wide cavern, at least a dozen other tunnels branching off of it. But it’s too late to keep running. Through the opening of the tunnel you were just in comes the Wendigo. It’s roughly twelve feet tall, with razor-sharp claws and a body with too-tight, ashen skin. It’s intestines swing loose from its torso, still jostled from its galloping. The monster exhales a rattling breath, and you can see its exposed lungs shudder. A wave of nausea hits you, and you groan. The sight of this deer-headed beast is enough to make you want to cry for your mother. While you took in the Wendigo, the boys lit their flamethrowers, readying themselves for battle. The Wendigo growls, racing forward at the three of you. The brothers turn their flamethrowers on it, and the monster wails, rearing away from the flames. It takes off to your left, down one of the tunnels.

“We’re not done yet,” Dean says, turning in circles to catch sight of the monster. It reappears not half a minute later, barreling out of another tunnel behind you. Before any of you can attack it, the beast jumps, finding purchase on a stalactite. The Wendigo breaks off another nearby rock feature, hurling it at you. The group scatters towards the edges of the cave as the Wendigo continues to hurl rocks at the ground. Seemingly satisfied, the monster descends, turning its attention towards you. It approaches with unnatural speed, and you point your flare gun at it. Your hands are trembling. The beast slams its arm into your side before you can get a shot off, knocking you to the floor a good three metres away from where you initially stood. You try to catch your breath, but the impact has knocked the breath out of you. You lay there gasping. Tears well in your eyes from the pain in your ribs. The Wendigo has turned its attention to the boys, and they seem to be holding their own. The hiss of flamethrowers echoes through the cave, along with the roars of the Wendigo. It extends its arm towards Sam, knocking him into the rocky wall. From where you are, you can see his face contort in pain as he crumbles to the ground. Dean exclaims, but continues to attack the beast, dodging its attacks at him. Once you can breathe again, you roll onto your side in search of the flare gun. But when you sit up, you wince. Your shirt is wet and sticking to your side. You hadn’t felt the cuts initially, and you still don’t thanks to adrenaline, but you can feel the blood in the cotton of your shirt. You squeeze your arm against your side and draw your handgun. You aim it, one handed, at the Wendigo and pop off a shot. Of course, it does little but to get the attention of the monster on you. You drop the pistol in favour of the flare gun. Still sitting on the floor, you take the weapon in both your hands and aim it at the Wendigo. The flare makes contact square in the Wendigo’s abdomen, lodging beneath its ribcage. The animal screams and falls to the ground, writhing in pure agony. Sam and Dean close in around it, dousing the thing in flames until the screaming stops, and all is still. The only sound in the cave is your harsh breathing and the brothers’ panting.

Dean sees your prone figure and runs over to you. “Y/N! Are you alright?” He drops to his knees, shining the flashlight on you. His hand comes to your side, touching gingerly around the gashes in your flesh. You wince and smack his hand away.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply, sitting up once more. “Help me up. We need to find Hannah.”

“But you’re injured,” Dean protests.

“Yeah, and I want to find Hannah before the adrenaline wears off and I feel like I’m going to die. So get me up. We need to find her.”

“There’s a man named Lewis Brown who went missing a couple days ago, and we think he’s here too.” Sam mentions. You nod.

Dean slips his arm under your back and helps you to stand. He picks up your pistol and moves your jacket to tuck it back into the holster. You look up at him, eyebrows raised. His hand lingers on your uninjured side just below the holster. His touch is electric. It sends a shiver down your spine and you bite your lip. He grins at you and winks. “You’re one tough cookie, you know that?” Dean smiles, his features warm with what you think could be fondness. You brush yourself off and Sam leads the way down one of the tunnels, thus beginning your search for Hannah. The cave system is disorienting, but there’s the occasional wooden sign pointing towards the exit, so you’re not too worried. You are starting to feel the pain in your side, however. You’ve been pressing your coat tightly to the wound, per Dean’s instruction, which has slowed the bleeding, but it still hurts. You just want to find Hannah and go home.

After hours of scouring the mines, you come into another cavernous space, but this time it isn’t empty. Five figures hang limply from wooden beams, two female, the other three male. Sam shines his flashlight on them. One is Hannah, you can tell immediately, though her face is bruised and dirty. You recognise the other figures as well from around town and from the reports publishing their disappearances. “They’re still alive,” Sam states after checking each persons’ pulse. Dean cuts the bindings around Hannah’s wrists and you support her weight when she falls. The movement seems to jostle her, and she opens her eyes.

“Y/N?” She asks, voice bleary.

“Yeah, it’s me. Shit, I’m so glad you’re alive. Buster and I were so worried.” You allow a watery laugh to escape, fat tears brimming in your eyes once again. You’re overwhelmed with the sight of your best friend. She smiles in return. “Can you stand?” Hannah nods. She stands up, but you still support a large part of her weight. Sam and Dean help the others down, sitting them on the ground if they’re conscious, and gingerly laying them down if they aren’t.

“I’ll call Officer Shepherd and tell her we found the victims.” Sam states, pulling out his cell phone, holding it skywards in search of a signal.

“Tell her to call for ambulances too. Some of these people need medical attention.” Sam grunts his acknowledgement and wanders down a tunnel leading out of the cavern. Sits on a rock, and you wait for Sam to return.

“They’ll be here in 15 minutes,” You hear Sam say, his voice echoing off the damp walls of the cave. All there is to do is wait.

-

As promised, the ambulances arrive as well as a few police vehicles. They wheel the victims into the ambulances, and a paramedic demands you go as well. You look at Dean and he nods. “You should go. They’ll stitch you up and we can go home. Sam and I will follow in the Impala.”

Having gotten the response you wanted, you go with the paramedic, sliding into a seat in the back of the ambulance where Hannah is prone, hooked into an IV.

The ride to the hospital is forgettable. You sit, holding Hannah’s hand, running your thumb over her knuckles absently.

Nurses meet your party in the ambulance bay and you’re ushered into a wheelchair by a kind nurse. She squeezes your shoulder and tells you everything will be alright in that feather-light voice of hers. You muse that it was a good choice of hers to be a nurse, because being in her presence has a calming effect on you. Her name is Jenny, she says.

Nurse Jenny has just finished cleaning your wound and is in the process of numbing the surrounding tissue when Dean enters. He smiles a little and sits in a nearby chair, watching the nurse work. “You’re doing really well, Y/N. I’m impressed. Doesn’t it hurt?” Nurse Jenny asks.

“Oh, it hurts like hell, but it just doesn’t make sense to complain, you know? Just wastin’ my breath if I do.” You smile when the nurse laughs. She pulls the sutures tight and covers the three wounds with long white strips of bandage. Dean comes over to the bed you’re laying on and hands you his flannel shirt. You smile gratefully at him and put it on, buttoning up the too big article of clothing. Jenny walks you back to reception where you sort out your insurance and copay.

Sam and Hannah are waiting for you in the lobby once you leave the pharmacy. Hannah seems better, her smile coming easier now.

“Shouldn’t they be keeping you overnight?” You ask.

Hannah shakes her head. “They said I was okay to go once my IV was empty. Nothin’s broken, so they don’t need to keep me any longer. I am tired, though. I wanna go home.”

You smile. “Alright. I think I’ll walk home. I could do to take in the air. It's not far.”

Dean looks at you skeptically. “You sure you’re okay to walk?”

“Positive. I feel fresh as a daisy.” That’s not entirely true, but you don’t feel like sitting in a stuffy car any longer. So you shake your pharmacy bag of Xanax at him and grin.

“I’ll go with you,” Dean says. You nod, taking his arm.

Sam looks at you two quizzically. “Suit yourselves. We’re gonna drive home like the sane people we are.”

The group parts ways once they’re out of the hospital, Sam guiding Hannah back to the Impala and Dean walking with you in the direction of your home.

The two of you make your way back at a leisure pace. You only limp slightly during the walk, your skin on your abdomen feeling too tight. After about five minutes, your breathing is significantly laboured, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Dean stops you. “Here,” he says, kneeling down in front of you. “Hop on.” Dean extends his arms behind himself, urging you to climb onto his back. You do as he says and wrap your arms around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. Dean’s arms pull your legs about his waist. He stands back up with minimal effort, continuing to walk as if you’re not even there.

“Thanks.” You place your chin on his shoulder, bouncing just a bit with each step. You pass by the local park and ask Dean to set you down.

“Why?” He asks, doing as he’s told either way.

“I want to look at the stars for a bit. Things feel different now, after today. I actually feel lucky to be alive,” you chuckle slightly. You wander beneath the trees until you find a patch of grass with open sky above it. Dean lays down beside you, and you stare into the night sky. “My mom was sick a lot when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time in that hospital. Always stopped on my walk back from school.” You aren’t sure why you’re telling Dean about your mom, but you don’t stop. “Until she died when I was in 8th grade. Cancer, I later found out. That really sucked.”

The grass rustles beneath Dean’s head when he turns to look at you. You don’t need to turn to know he’s looking. “My mom died when I was a little kid. A demon attacked her and she burned to death in Sammy’s nursery. It’s why my brother and I hunt. My dad became obsessed with finding that demon, and now it’s our job…”

“Wow,” you breathe. Reaching out, you search for Dean’s hand in the grasp, slipping your fingers into his palm. You squeeze his large hand tightly, hoping to convey your sympathy to him. “Do… Do you miss her? I miss my mom, and I had her for longer than you did yours.”

“All the time,” Dean concedes. “I always wonder what my life would have been like if she hadn’t died. I probably would have gone to college… Sam would have been graduating from Stanford soon…” Dean drifts off once again, lost in thought. His fingers grip yours like a lifeline. “We would have had a home.” The hunters voice cracks on the word ‘home’ and your heart clenches.

“I’m so sorry, Dean. I really am.”

“Mmm,” Dean grunts, acknowledging your apology. You two stare into the sky in silence. Eventually you stand again, ready to go home. The air has become too chilly for you on this young spring evening. Dean resumes his position as your noble steed and carries you home.

-

Dean sets you down at the gate to your yard. Once he’s facing you again, you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. It’s muffled, but Dean can still hear your “thank you”.

“All in a day’s work,” he replies, one arm around you, the other hand stroking your hair.

“No, really. Thank you. You didn’t even know Hannah, or- or Lewis, but you and Sam helped them.” You look up at Dean, sincerity to the highest degree in your eyes.

Dean shrugs, smiling sheepishly at you. “I like helping people,” he murmurs. A comfortable silence falls between you two. Reaching up, you caress the hunters cheek, fingertips tracing lightly over a bruise forming on his defined cheekbone. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your hand drifts to the back of his neck, pulling him down as you stand on tiptoe. Your lips brush together gently at first. Dean presses in more firmly, hand cradling the back of your head. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about this. Kissing Dean is as good as you imagined it could be. His lips are soft and full, and the barest hint of stubble brushes against your skin, making it tingle. You move in unison, breathing each other’s air, melding perfectly together. You pull away after a good amount of time, looking up at Dean. His pupils are blown, and he has a lazy smile on his pink lips.

“What am I getting into with you, Dean Winchester?” You ask. It’s mostly a rhetorical question, but you still can’t help wondering.

Dean’s features turn solemn. He’s been through this before, you can tell. His whole body language changes to being more reserved. “I.. Nothing good. I like you too much, Y/N, but I have a duty to humanity to keep the world safe.”

You tilt your head, placing your chin on Dean’s chest. “So you wouldn’t stay, even if I asked?”

Dean opens his mouth as if to speak, but hesitates. “I’m not cut out for the domestic life… I’ve done a lot of messed up shit. Too much. I can’t just pretend like none of that ever happened and get an honest job as a mechanic or somethin’. Besides, I can’t just make that decision. Sam should have a say too.” He shakes his head. His eyes won’t meet yours.

“Your past doesn’t define your future, you know. You _could_ do everything you just mentioned. Jumping from motel to motel ain’t living. You need somewhere to come back to. Somewhere to call home… But it’s your choice. I can’t convince you one way or another.” You pry yourself away and take his hand, opening the gate and leading the way inside. It’s about midnight now, so the neighbourhood is quiet and so is your house. The staircase is in the living room, and you’re leading Dean upstairs when you pause. Sam and Hannah lay together on the couch, both dead asleep. Two used plates with leftover spaghetti sauce sit on the coffee table, and Buster is sniffing them curiously. Sam has his arm wrapped around Hannah’s waist protectively, and her head rests on his bicep. Yo tiptoe over, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch to cover them, smiling at the sight.

You turn the television off before returning to Dean. His eyes linger on his brother and your friend, a swirl of emotions passing through his dark eyes. “Well, this certainly changes things,” he says, voice hushed. You can’t help the grin that graces your lovely features. You don’t reply, but simply lead Dean back up the stairs. You’ll talk in the morning.


End file.
